


Feet Water (The Storm is Coming)

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Cardiff, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Folklore, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Storytelling, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Colin's from rain is as common as air, but a proper storm is worth living for. He's all set to enjoy mother nature's finest on a free night in Cardiff when Bradley turns up at his door, desperately seeking distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feet Water (The Storm is Coming)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tidier, slightly expanded version of a comment fic written for a prompt at kmm #36. Original prompt text, notes on sources and Irish bits are included in the end notes; however, if scrolling up and down isn't your thing, rest assured that the general sentiment and significance of the latter, if not their exact translations, should be clear from the story text.
> 
> It's also sheer, shameless fiction, of the sort that happens when whiskey, folktales and a few litres of nostalgic BTS feelings fall in my porn blender. Oops! Thank you to the OP for the fantastic prompt and the handful of lovely nonnies (and non-anonnies) who followed along at the meme!

**Cardiff, late spring, 2009**

Colin loves a good storm. Where he's from rain's as common as air, but a proper storm – crashing thunder and banshee winds, streams of rainwater pulsing slantwise across the glass – is worth living for. Feeling that slap of bigger-than-thou as the sky kicks up a fuss, the thrill of _almost_ danger so long as he's not out in it, any window a front-row seat to the show. And what a seat he's got now – double glass doors, balcony fronted in clear Perspex panels, stunning 6th-floor view of the Taff. 

He stands in the gathering dark, towelling his hair and watching the normally placid water pixelate, the landscape beyond blur as the storm moves in. He's just wrapped on a block. His comfiest pyjamas are laid out on the bed. If he were smart he'd try and relax, catch up on his emails and sleep while there are no new scripts to distract him. Maybe read a book that will help him escape, from Merlin and Wales and whomever this new creature is that he's become, in thrall to a crooked smile and a dozen different laughs – to a fat helping of lost boy covered by a slick sheen of man and eyes that Colin can't seem to outrun. Not that he's been trying very hard of late.

The sky stutters into brightness, as if someone's flicked on a light behind the clouds. A moment later, there is a terrific peal of thunder – heart thudding and glass rattling, like being trapped in the backseat with the bass up high, trapped in a mass of bodies at a gig, at a club, other bodies reminding Colin that he has one too, that he is allowed to feel things that don't come off a page.

The thought comes to him in the wake of the thunder: He's going to have a wank. A wank and a beer. A beer and a filthy, naked _glorious_ wank as he watches the storm, thinking all his dangerous thoughts with nature's indulgence, and after – hopefully – the forgiveness, the oblivion of sleep.

Ignoring his pyjamas, he hangs his wet towel on the rack in the en suite, fetches a dry one and drapes it over a chair. He's just dragging the chair from its corner when he's startled by a knock on the room door.

He freezes. Mind skittering over the inventory: lights off, clothes off, chain – thank fecking Christ – _on_ and no one he knows supposed to be here, Katie and Angel released day-before-last for a long weekend and Bradley making noises at lunch about making a night of it with mates coming from London.

Colin's just starting to breathe easy when the knock comes again, this time accompanied by a voice.

'Colin, you there?'

Familiar because a year in and he already knows he'll never forget Bradley's voice as long as he lives, yet foreign because – 

'Cols?'

Because it's Bradley sounding a new kind of earnest. Bradley sounding fecking _scared._

'Thought you were off on the town,' Colin says as he opens the door – pyjamas on, lights on and chain off with hasty, fumbling fingers. Brain telling him all he had to do was not move not speak and none of it would have been necessary.

'Change of plans,' is all Bradley says, waggling a bottle of something amber. 'Thought you might be lonely.'

'I am never lonely,' Colin deadpans. 'Not with the voices in my head.'

Bradley's smile flickers to genuine for a moment. 'Bored, then. In need of _decent_ company.'

'Bradley, I – '

Colin's cut off by another clap of thunder, this one louder, nearer – practically overhead. He sees Bradley wince, his smile frozen on his face, then his expression slides back into an approximation of what it was before.

'C'mon,' he says. 'Let me in. I'm dying to hear the rest of the story.'

'What?' 

'At lunch the other day. You and Katie. The thing about…you know...' Bradley frowns, waving his free hand, looking past Colin's shoulder, and now it's not so much an attempt at lost boy charm as just plain _lost_ and Colin's first instinct, of course, is to save him. 

'The feet water?'

'Yes.' Bradley lifts a finger, stabs it towards Colin. 'Yes, the very thing. Drink?'

'Why not?' Colin says, trying to process that Bradley was listening, that he _listens,_ just as Katie and Angel have said; trying to process the suspicion that it's the storm that's got Bradley on edge. 

Surely not. Surely…

But Colin's done thinking as Bradley brushes past him, pressing the bottle into his hands and heading directly for the en suite and the tooth glasses. He emerges empty-handed, scowling.

'You should have said you were about to have a bath, mate.'

'I wasn't. I just –'

'Filled the bathtub to deter spiders?'

'What?!' He chuckles at the random, panics at the implication. He could have sworn he'd pulled the plug. 'No, I… I just finished, actually. Must have forgot to drain it.'

Bradley gives him a funny look. 'Weirdo,' he says, and disappears back into the en suite. He reappears with the glasses, but not before Colin hears, above the storm, the first desperate suck and gargle of the drain, and all he can think about is that Bradley's just stuck his arm into a tub of his dirty bathwater without second thought, where he's just washed his feet and his _balls_ for feck's sake, and also that… No, seriously, he could have _sworn_ he'd already pulled the plug. 

' _Seachain!_ ' he mutters. It's from long habit and respect for his granny, but also, just now, because the coincidence is too much. He remembers her craggy voice, her dear, whiskery face – remembers nearly the same words from Katie's fresh, crimson lips, the two of them playing homesick paddy the other day over lunch.

_'In every house the people of long ago would wash their feet, same as they do today, and after that you should always throw out the water, because dirty water should never be kept inside during the night.'_

There's another flash of lightning, another bone-rattling lick of thunder. Colin's saved from his ominous thoughts by the ghost in Bradley's eyes, the shiver-clink of the glasses held between his forked fingers.

He's not imagined it then; there's something about the storm that's got Bradley spooked. Colin looks him over properly. Stripy shirt, faded and too tight – from his teens, most like – and soft jogging shorts; thick sport socks and his Adidas slides. Dressed for a night in, for comfort above all. 

Colin crosses towards him, relieves him of the glasses with all the reassuring-best-mate-smile he can muster.

'How 'bout that drink?' he says, and ignores the way Bradley's hand trembles at the next clap of thunder. 

'Cheers,' Bradley says, lifting his glass. He's claimed the chair, turning it to face the room and flopping into it. No notice of the towel, no wry eyebrow and comment though Colin's dead certain it's a giveaway he's been lounging about in his bollocks.

'Cheers,' Colin echoes, leaning against the desk. He's still trying to sort out what this is, this niggle he's getting at seeing Bradley so easy in his space, but ill at ease all the same. 

They nod at one another and toss the liquor back just as a sheet of rain and wind slams into the building. Bradley flinches, turns it into a grimace as he peers into his glass.

'This is horrible.'

'Yep,' Colin agrees, wincing at the burn in his throat, in his belly as the shot lands with a fiery punch. He doesn’t drink spirits much, at least not without ample mixer. 'Katie's?'

Bradley nods, holds out his empty glass. 'From one of her admirers. Left it in my room.'

'Wise of her.' Colin sets his glass down, grabs the bottle and pushes off the desk. 

'Oh?'

Splash of liquor in the glass, heavy tattoo of rain on the balcony doors. Only half an eyebrow's worth of interest, but going by the look in his eyes he's desperate for distraction.

'Doesn't need any more hair on her chest.'

Bradley's chuckle is half-hearted, more of a snort tacked onto a wry smile. ' _You're_ horrible,' he says, shaking his head. 'Why am I the only one who sees?'

'Dunno. You're a bit special?' Colin means it in a dropped-on-your-head sense, means for it to be mocking, but it comes out spare, hesitant. He tries covering with a shit-eating grin, then is saved by another terrific one-two of lightning and thunder.

'Whoa,' he breathes, eyes on the scene outside. It's like the world's underwater. The wind's toppled one of the balcony chairs, is pushing the other towards the side wall on skids of rainwater. 

He hears Bradley's cough and splutter – a too-sudden swallow – and focusses back on his face, pushing down the sudden guilt-surge instinct to apologise. For what, he doesn't know. Bradley's white-knuckling his glass, staring down at his lap. 

'You alright, man?' 

'What?'

'You seem a bit…' At Bradley's frown, Colin backs off the dozens of things Bradley's a bit of right now. He hands him the bottle instead, says, 'You want I should get the curtains?' All casual, like it's no big deal.

Bradley glares up at him. 'Because if I can't see it, it isn't there? _Christ,_ Colin. No.'

Colin backs away, sits on the edge of the bed opposite. Does a bit of glaring himself, as it's _his_ room and it was going to be his lovely thunderstorm-wank until Bradley spoiled things and he's just trying to be fecking _nice._

'Look, just – ' Bradley sighs, pours himself another swallow of whiskey, sets the bottle on the floor. 'Sorry. Not keen on storms.'

There's something about his tone, about the way he shifts in his chair that makes Colin want to ask. So he does. Blunt and steady, like they're fine-tuning a script.

'Just not keen, or bad memories?'

'Something like that,' Bradley mutters, avoiding Colin's gaze.

'And a story will help, will it?'

'Hm?'

'You said you wanted to hear the rest of Katie's story. About the feet water.'

'Oh, right. Yes.' He nods, takes a more cautious sip of his drink.

 _Bollocks,_ Colin wants to say, but instead he gestures for Bradley to pass him the bottle. 'Give us another snort then.' He doesn’t bother getting up to fetch his glass, takes a swig straight from the bottle and chokes it down, mainly for Bradley's amusement.

'Well that didn't take long. Should I prepare myself for singing and dancing on tables?'

'Never happened.' Colin shakes a finger at him as he reaches down, placing the bottle by Bradley's feet. This is better territory. Safer.

Then Bradley's giving him one of those warm, close smiles, his eyes roving all over Colin's face like he's about to crack the mystery, and Colin knows he's made a mistake. This isn't safe at all, at _all._

'Only because we stopped you,' Bradley says. 'You were totally about to climb – '

'So, the _feet water_ ,' Colin cuts in, 'is what's left over after you wash your feet. Got that much?'

Bradley narrows his eyes at the clumsy subject change, but allows it with a wave of his hand – the gracious one, not Arthur's impatient 'out with it then, if you must.' It's always the little things with Bradley, except when it's the massive, elephant-in-the-room-sized thing that is Colin's crush.

He rushes on, too self-conscious now to give the story its proper due. 'Well, you've got to throw it out before you turn in, and give a warning to them that may be gathered near your door, else they'll get in during the night and – '

'Who'll get in?'

'The hill people. Wee folk.'

'Fairies?'

Colin nods. 'Or the unhappy dead, according to my granny.'

'Ah.' Bradley smiles. 'Good to know it runs in the family.'

Colin gives him the finger, immediately wishes he hadn't when he sees the way Bradley's eyes slide over it – more of that half-puzzled, half-smug consideration. 'They'll get in during the night and, you know, mess with your stuff. Eat all your bread and butter, drink up the beer, take the best seats by the fire.'

'Sounds like my uncle.'

Colin can’t help but chuckle at that. 'Yes, well, but they'll _never leave_. Sit there spinning their sacks of wool, sucking the life from your home while you shiver and starve – all the while the neighbours banging on your door telling you to keep the racket down.'

They both start as another clap of thunder sounds, almost directly overhead. The friendly spark goes out of Bradley's eyes.

'So that's why you've got to throw out the feet water,' Colin finishes, cringing inside at his little 'voilà!' gesture.

Bradley's silent for a moment, finger tapping on the side of his glass. He swallows what's left, sets it on the floor beside the bottle, runs a hand through his hair.

'I don’t get it though. What's the one got to do with the other – or is it one of those random "don't step on a crack" type of things?'

'Oh, no, see – sorry, I forgot that bit – it's the feet water that'll let them in. If you forget and keep it inside. The fairies call out to all the things in the house, but they all belong to you, good and proper, and won't leave their places. But the feet water splits its bowl and lets them in.'

'Colin, that's…' Bradley shakes his head in wonder, his expression almost pained as he studies him. 'So the feet water's evil?'

Colin shrugs. 'I guess. Or it's just – you've finished with it, yeah? It's no longer yours, so it can't say no when they ask.' 

Like me, he thinks, horror dawning as he realises who he is in this whole equation. Always opens the door when it's Bradley asking. Can't say no. Splits its bowl and lets him in.

'Not sure if that's profound or the dumbest thing I've ever heard.'

'Let's say both and chalk it up to the whiskey?' Colin stands, giving him a weak smile. 'Wanna watch something?' Other than my face, he thinks, as Bradley's still staring.

Bradley shrugs, but before Colin can find the remote there's a sudden rush of wind, a great _clang_ as something smacks into the glass. It's the chair, he sees; the wind's changed direction, raging at them from the west with nothing to block it, flinging great fistfuls of rain. 

A moment later there's a cascading spray of lightning out over the water, a series of cracks and booms like a fireworks finale is just kicking off, and Colin alone would be aching for it, that sort of violent beauty, would have his nose pressed to the glass, but just now he's too busy staring into Bradley's eyes, seeing the panic there and thinking that there is nothing, _nothing_ he wouldn't do to erase it, because he's the fecking feet water and he doesn't belong to himself any more, so he can't resist.

'Or…' he says. The most dangerous word in the world, that is, so of course he repeats it. 

'Or I could…'

Bradley's forehead furrows, his lips part. Eyes tracking Colin as he paces from desk to bed to wardrobe to chair to bed to nightstand to chair to the small, negligible patch of carpet between the chair and the bed. 'Colin?'

'The way I see it, you've at least one, possibly two, days until you have to be back in chainmail, yeah?'

It's not what he was expecting, clearly, but Colin gets the feeling it almost never is, and either way Bradley's used to going with it by now. He nods.

'So why don't we stop drinking this foul bogwater – I've got beer, if you'd rather – and I'll give you a neck rub like Tony does, except in this case it'll last longer than your next take.'

It's a thin story. Paper-thin and saturated, one whisper shy of breaking. The fact that Bradley doesn't call him on it – only shrugs, mumbling some sort of 'not gonna say no to that' as he stands, kicks off his slides and moves to sit on the foot of the bed – tells Colin all he needs to know about what a bad place he's in.

He's less sure what to do with the fact that Bradley strips his shirt off as well, bunches it in his hands, and bows his head.

'Cheers, Colin,' he says softly, well before Colin's laid a finger on him, and apparently that's all it takes these days to get Colin hard.

He kneels on the mattress behind Bradley, blows on his hands and briskly rubs them together. If he's being honest with himself it's as much cowardice as it is courtesy, a delay until…

Bare skin and bare scent and no sound but the storm raging outside. Battling his breath and his stupid prick, who thinks getting closer like this is a promise of something more.

Bradley gives a grunt as Colin presses his thumbs into the thick muscle either side of his neck, murmurs his 'Cheers' again.

'Any time,' Colin says, meaning it. He's no expert, but he's dealt with his fair share of neck rubs, particularly in drama school, where they'd mutated from a sneaky way to get your hands on a girl (or a boy) to a part of the process, a blurring of self and other meant to break the ice, same as any other theatre game. 

He assumes it's the same for Bradley. Has to, else he'll go insane.

He works his thumbs in firm circles from the centre outward. At first it's like tending a block of marble; Bradley's muscles are seized with tension, unyielding. This, Colin realises, is where he's been carrying it, the truth behind all those flinches and shuttered looks, all the not keens and bad memories. 

It's funny. He'd been assuming Bradley wasn't the sort – not that he's beyond being hurt, but that he isn't the sort to whom it sticks, that he's the proverbial duck, shaking it off and moving on, always a life of ample breadcrumbs and merry quacking. 

_This_ Bradley, the one beneath his hands, is another creature entirely, and Colin's not sure he should be touching him right now.

He finds a knot, applies both his thumbs, gradually increasing the pressure until he feels it start to give. Bradley sucks in a sharp breath.

'Too much?' 

Bradley gives a minute shake of his head. ' 'S good. Harder.'

Biting his lip, holding his breath, Colin obeys. He digs his thumbs in, jiggling them until it feels as if he's spreading the muscle against the underlying bone. He worries that he'll leave bruises. 'You sure I'm not hurting you?'

'Hurts, but – ' Bradley lets out a rumbling sigh as Colin lifts his thumbs, then rolls his shoulder. 'Better after. Much.'

The warm relief in his voice is almost too much to bear, is something Colin wants more of. He goes on a hunt for all the other knots, mapping Bradley's upper back with his fingertips, probing, sometimes even kneading the seized flesh with the heel of his palm and eliciting an increasingly vocal response. 

It goes straight to his neglected cock and febrile heart, which have, predictably, decided to take all Bradley's noises entirely out of context. Hums. Sighs. Grunts that end on bitten-off breaths. Murmurs of, 'Just a bit… Yeah, there.'

He's so wound up that when the next thunder volley arrives, he jerks along with Bradley. Without thinking he squeezes the back of his neck, scuffs his thumb behind one ear like he's petting a cat.

' _Relax_ , will you? You'll undo all my good work.' 

It comes out so peeved, so fussy Colin doesn't blame Bradley for laughing at him and holding up his hands in surrender, one still clutching his wadded-up shirt. He tries looking back over his shoulder, too, but Colin puts a stop to that.

'Eyes front,' he snaps, giving Bradley's neck another hard squeeze.

'Why, what are you getting up to back there?'

'Nothing! Just… Hard to rub your neck if it's whipping about, yeah?'

At first Bradley doesn't respond. There's a moment where it’s just the wind and the rain, the dying grumbles of thunder. Colin takes a breath and shifts on his knees, trying to get more comfortable without giving himself away. He's just started probing the ridge of muscle at the base of Bradley's skull when he pushes back, arching his head into Colin's hands.

'What if I lie down?' he says. 'Won’t that be easier?' His tone is far, far too casual for it to be any such thing.

Colin's brain shrieks in protest, but his throat and tongue are already conspiring on a grunt of 'sure, whatever', and his body's already scrambling back and angling away, already making room. 

It's only after Bradley's sprawled facedown on the bed that Colin sees what his brain was trying to warn him about. There's a flaw in this plan, a giant, glaring flaw, which is that the only way to get at Bradley now is to – one fecking A – kneel at his side, hunch over him, and pray he keeps his eyes closed or – two fecking B – climb aboard.

'Col?'

'Yep?'

Colin blames Katie's whiskey, Bradley's toplessness. Or maybe he's just that thick. There are times he wonders at his top marks in school. There are times he thanks Mary, Jesus and all the saints that he grew up the stubborn, starry-eyed fish in a very small pond, and that none of the other fish were ever remotely like Bradley. 

He remembers being smashed on cans at fifteen and _almost_ offering to suck Liam Taylor off in a bus shelter – thinks that if it had been Bradley he would have probably dared – nay, _insisted_ – then invited him round for a very awkward tea.

'Problem?'

More lightning. More thunder, but not quite as near. Bradley's fingers tensing on Colin's pillows.

'Nope,' Colin says, glaring at Bradley's back. His shorts are riding low, the thumb-sized divots at the base of his spine fully exposed; his shorts also happen to be a very thin, arse-clingy heather grey, and Colin can see that he's not wearing any pants. 'I'm grand, me.'

He hovers at Bradley's hip, tries one of the divots on for size and gets a pleased hum in response when he presses down. He adds his other thumb, twisting his upper body awkwardly to try and keep his movements parallel with Bradley's spine. 

Bradley fidgets, sighs. 

'What is it?' Colin pauses, but keeps his hands on Bradley's back. He likes the little pocket of warm air that gathers between their skins. 'C'mon, out with it.'

'Any chance you could go a bit harder?'

Colin winces. 'Sorry. Ehm, if I sat on you, maybe?'

Bradley pulls an arm down and back, shocks Colin by smacking his own arse. 'By all means. Been told it's quite comfortable.'

'Hire it out for parties, do you?' It slips out on a laugh and from sheer nerves, thinking of Bradley as an item of furniture. Not thinking of other meanings. _Not thinking._

But Bradley, damn him, is a step ahead. He utters a positively filthy, 'Why, _Colin!_ Who told you?' and pushes up to his elbows, twisting to look over his shoulder – one bright eye and half a grin.

Colin does the only thing he can think of: He hastily straddles Bradley's hips and lunges forward, palms in the centre of his back, using his body weight to help shove him down.

'Angel,' he ad libs. 'Says the goods don't match the price. Says – '

' _Ouf!_ Rude. As if she'd know a decent – '

There's a sharp crack of thunder. Bradley tenses and Colin – he forgets himself and lets his hips drop down. Neither of them finishes whatever they'd been about to say, as suddenly the room is filled with the feel, the thrill, the undeniable fact that Colin's rather obviously tenting his pyjama bottoms, and has just bounced the pole itself off Bradley's lower spine.

The smart thing, Colin realises a split second _after_ he's mumbled 'shite sorry' and jerked away, face hot and belly clenched with dread, would have been to act like it's no big deal. 

Because that's what Bradley seems to be saying with his breathy grunt, his, 'Relax, mate. It happens.' His hand gropes for and finds Colin's knee, pats it; for a moment it's the only thing keeping Colin from vaulting off and disappearing into the en suite. To bang his head against the wall or douse his prick in cold water, he really doesn't know.

Colin stares at familiar fingers and familiar fabric juxtaposed in a manner his brain can't quite process. Bradley's touching his blue check cotton pyjamas. No, Bradley's touching _him_ through his pyjamas. In a bed. In a room. One stormy night…

_'Relax, mate, it happens.'_

'Colin?' Pat, pat, gentle shake. 'I'm serious. It's no big deal, and I'd love the rest of that back rub…if you're still offering?'

'Yeah, I… Sure. But.' Colin squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing hard at the spot between them, trying to tell himself to shut up and take the out he's been offered. But when he opens them he still sees a very different picture to the one Bradley's painting.

If all goes well they'll be working together for _years_ and Colin suspects that, though it'll never be written in any of the rulebooks, misunderstood erections are a shitty foundation on which to build trust.

'It kind of is though,' he says to the hand on his knee, avoiding the sight of his blue-check-covered bulge looming over Bradley. 'Not a big deal, I mean, but… Um, this isn't being thirteen at the pool. It's not exactly…random.'

'I know.'

'But I swear I never meant to – '

'Colin, I said I _know._ '

'Oh.'

Pat, pat, gentle squeeze. 'Still fine by me, alright? So sit. Please. Stop worrying and sic those freaky thumbs on my lats.'

Dazed, Colin lowers himself until he's sitting on Bradley – who _is_ for the record, quite comfy – and resumes the massage, doing his best to ignore both his stubborn erection and Bradley's gracious reaction to it.

Except.

Except it's all very vague and maddening, isn't it? Colin frowns as he maps Bradley's lower back, gently at first, then – when he finds the grain of the muscle or a palpable knot – working it with ruthless pressure. 

'I know,' and 'It's fine' could cover any number of assumptions: that Colin's attracted to men, to _Bradley_ ; that Colin's a perv who gets off on thunderstorms or luring blokes into his bed with back rubs and folktales; that Bradley's _used_ to his mates popping boners in his presence, has had a dick to the back before, and – 

Bradley exhales in a noisy gust. 'Yeah, like that. _Christ_ …' 

Colin starts, realises just how hard he's been digging in, just how much Bradley likes it – just how Bradley _sounds_ when he's liking it. He's not sure he should know these things. 

The sky spits and grumbles. Bradley shifts beneath him, buttocks tensing, then going lax – and _oh_ but Colin could get off on that happening about a dozen more times while Bradley makes his happy back noises. Which is very wrong to be thinking about. And very arousing. Shite. _Feck._

'If you're going to think that loudly, you might as well tell me another story.'

'Yeah?' Colin freezes. This could work. Distraction. Something nice and bloody from the Ulster Cycle, because that shite can be spun out for hours of cattle raids and gory beheadings… Or perhaps something with voices and a bit of humour to take the edge off.

'Ever heard of Huddon and Duddon and Donald O'Leary?'

'Your cousins, I presume?'

'Tch! Never.' Colin flicks Bradley's side. 'They're Katie's people, of course. Thieves and scoundrels.'

Bradley laughs, his bum jouncing, and Colin hastily re-evaluates the situation. No humour then. None. 

'Or Conchobar mac Nessa?' 

'How about Colin Morgan?'

'What?'

'No more folktales.' Bradley lifts his head from where it's propped on his left arm and a corner of Colin's pillow. 'Tell me a story about you.'

'What do you want to know?' Colin says, wary. He's not sure what to expect. Bradley's tried mock-interviewing him before, often on camera, but this doesn't feel like that. There's no audience, for one, no one to play up for or be cautious of; plus, unless Colin's read Bradley all wrong and he's a sociopath, he doesn't think he'd fake a fear of thunderstorms and nonchalance around Colin's erection just for an elaborate prank.

'Something horrible, from when you were a kid. You can't have always been a saint.'

Colin chuckles. Given the position he's in – given what he's been thinking – the idea that he's a saint is not only laughable but delightfully perverse.

'You mean evil on purpose, or just being wick?'

'Wick?'

Colin hears the oh-so-very-English frown in his voice, that hint of cartoon arrogance that appears when Bradley's unsure of himself. 'Stupid, I mean.'

'Whichever.'

Colin gives it a think, pummelling the large planks of muscle along Bradley's mid-back with a rapid series of karate chops that garners another enthusiastic moan and a rumbling sound from deep within Bradley's throat, almost like a purr.

When he lets up, Bradley mumbles, 'If the acting thing's a bust – not that it will be, but – you could go into sport massage with those hands.'

'Cheers,' Colin says softly, pleased with the compliment even though it's a ridiculous idea. He doesn’t mind touching Bradley, _likes_ touching Bradley, and is pathetically over-invested in wanting to make him feel good, which can't be said for most people. If he tried doing this for a wage he'd likely end up strangling half his clients.

'Happy to do it,' he adds, going back to broad circles with his thumbs. Then, before he caves and topples into Merlin's anything-for-you-Arthur territory, he launches into the stories about ill-advised tea cosy balaclavas and early attempts at street theatre, convincing his cousin that all her very deceased guinea pig needed was the kiss of life and a jolt from the mains, or being dumb enough at seven to think that if he burned his school trousers he'd get to wear the skirt or short options, because it had worked for Becky Nolan.

As he talks, the most wondrous thing happens. Even though it's still Bradley in his bed – Bradley's broad naked back and sinfully comfy arse; his rumbling laugh and beautiful hands resting proprietarily on Colin's pillows – Colin's prick is lulled into a quieter state. Not limp, per se, but a tolerable fullness, everything hanging warm and heavy between his spread thighs, just two thin layers of fabric away from Bradley's skin, but that thought's no longer quite as panic-inducing. 

Perhaps he and Bradley can be that sort of friends this year, the sort who can touch and hug and calmly rest their balls on one another without it being a _thing._

Colin squirms a little, adjusting his seat. 'So,' he says, 'what about you? What's the dumbest thing you've ever done?'

Bradley's quiet for a moment. Colin feels him tense up, and doesn’t realise at first why that's odd until the silence drags out. Then it hits him: no thunder. There are rumbles off in the distance, but it seems as if the worst of it has passed; just now there's only the steady pounding of the rain and the occasional gust of wind.

'Well,' Bradley says, 'I hope it's not this.'

'What… acting, you mean? Playing Arthur?'

'No, _this._ '

And before Colin can ask what the feck 'this' is again, Bradley is twisting beneath him, half-way bucking him off only to reach for his arms and pull him back down, side by side and face to face, one thigh wedged between Colin's, and Colin feels a warm, fat, _gloriously_ firm bulge pressing into his hip. 

His eyes are bigger darker fiercer _nearer_ than Colin's ever seen them before, darting between Colin's eyes and his mouth. He swallows heavily. Colin smells fading whiskey breath over something sweet. 

'Want to kiss you,' Bradley says. 'Would that be – _mmm._ '

'Yes,' Colin whispers, well after he's made his answer plain.

Colin loves a good kiss. Sweet press sliding into a thorough lip-lock, a nip, a tease, that first hint of tongue never enough. Chasing that taste, that heat, that perfect angle where there's no more air getting in and the hunger of it is driving his hips, cock wanting what tongue's getting. Tongue never getting enough because Bradley's _wrecking_ him, kissing with his hands as much as his mouth. Thumbs on Colin's lips – ring catching, dragging at the sensitive skin – and fingers on his jaw, petting him in a possessive way that taps directly into his hindbrain's pool of _yes sir please,_ but that also prevents him from settling in any one position or kissing as deeply as he wants.

This is the thing about Colin and kissing, Colin and sex. People tend to expect him to be prudish or horribly awkward – he blames his face, which still gets called 'lovely' and 'sweet' more than 'handsome' – and it's true he's not the touchiest, feeliest guy on the planet. His real secret, though, is that when he's in, he's _all_ in – has no filter, doesn't hold back, can't stand playing games. That's why he keeps the walls up most of the time, lets very few people into the innermost sanctum. He knows the kind of damage he's in for if things go arsewise.

But this is Bradley. 

Bradley who's been testing – no, _destroying_ – his walls for months and months now with his work hard, play hard, fingers in all of Colin's pies approach to life. Bradley who, up until a minute ago, Colin thought was strictly into sleeping with women, but also, most importantly, Bradley in whom he _trusts._

So if Bradley's wanting to kiss him, Colin's tearing the final wall down. For whatever reason. For however fecking long. He doesn't need to talk about it. He just wants to – 

'Whoa, whoa there,' Bradley says, pulling back for a panted breath, clutching Colin's face. He's got those little clefts between his brows. Colin has the mad urge to lick them, suck them smooth again.

'What?' he whispers, already missing Bradley's mouth, vexed at the loss of it.

Bradley smiles – slow, hesitant. 'So this is… You're good with this?'

And Colin should really ask for the specifics on 'this,' given how many times Bradley's surprised him tonight, but he can't be arsed, not when Bradley's looking at him like a bowl of ice cream, his thigh rub-rubbing against Colin's cock, coaxing it back to full hardness.

'What the feck do you think?' It comes out harsher than Colin intended, but Bradley only smiles wider.

'That's better,' he says, flexing his thigh, flicking his eyes down between them. 'I'd got used to it being all friendly towards me.'

'You are _such_ an ar– '

Then it's Bradley who's shutting him up with a kiss that steals all the air, not because it's fierce, but because it's unbearably soft, the merest brush of lips along with a mumbled, 'I know, I know. But the back rub _was_ really good. Plus I wasn't sure you actually wanted – '

' _Bradley,_ did I not say – ' Colin slides his hand low on Bradley's back, holding him firmly as he breathes against his mouth, as he presses fractionally _in,_ cock answering dragging thigh with a slow grind. ' – that it wasn't random?'

'Doesn't mean you want me to take advantage.'

Colin blinks, feeling the flutter-kick in his chest because this _here_ is the sort of decency – the weird chivalry that isn’t always second nature to Bradley, but that he strives so hard for, particularly where Colin is concerned – that got his heart into trouble in the first place.

He swallows, breathes, lets go of the tension in his groin. Tries to study Bradley's face minus the cock-daze and initial surge of surprise-kissing adrenaline, but…

It's Bradley. Nothing new to see here, because _everything_ already. Everything still. 

'And if I do?' Colin says.

Bradley takes a breath, slow and steady, studying Colin right back. 

'Then you should know that this is mostly new for me, but it's…' His gaze drifts to Colin's mouth, pulls up almost guiltily. ' _Not_ random either. Been on my mind for quite some time.' 

Colin's not going to ask since when. Tells himself he doesn’t need, doesn't want to know. There's relief enough in knowing this isn't some unconsidered fumble; there's pressure enough in that 'mostly new.'

But Bradley keeps looking at him all rumple-faced, half shy and half proud, like he's waiting for Colin to say _something_ and they're not on the job but in bed together, so he can hardly whisper 'Line?' 

So. What comes out is a wobbly, 'Grand.' Then a firmer, 'Brilliant,' as he leans in to kiss a corner of Bradley's mouth, because that's about the size of things.

Then, because he has manners too, isn’t feral, for feck's sake, and well remembers when 'this' was mostly new to him as well, Colin asks, 'Anything else I should know?'

Bradley chases Colin's mouth, stealing a brief, sucking kiss before scuffing his lips across Colin's cheek. He palms Colin's neck, then curls his fingers, running a loose-knuckled fist up and down, slowly stroking from ear to sternum, halting at the first oversized button fastening of his pyjama top. His thumb drags, the faint scrape of his nail making Colin shiver. 

Colin goes still and waits, or tries to, but there's already too much fierce, bodily happiness boiling over. His hip nudges against Bradley's cock, his cock twitches against Bradley's thigh; his thumb can't help but seek out one of those low-back divots. Smooth, thick skin, the dips before the plunge, the rise – so mouth-wateringly close to other places Colin wants to touch.

Finally Bradley eases that top button open, places his palm flat on Colin's chest, fingers splayed. Smug, fond smile as he gazes into Colin's eyes, thumb restlessly stroking the hair he's uncovered. Colin's heart flinging itself up out of the trenches, running like mad towards whatever's coming. 

'You mean like what I think of your fussy old man pyjamas? They're ri _dic_ ulous, Colin. I'm a little concerned about how attractive you look in them.'

' _No_ , Bradley.' Colin knows he sounds annoyed, and that his ears are probably red, but Bradley will just have to cope because, seriously, he's decided _now_ is the time to flirt? 'I mean like is there anywhere you don't want me touching you – any place I shouldn't put my mouth?'

Bradley's eyebrows climb up his forehead, lips parting, skewing his smile into something a bit crazed. 

'Do you want to get off just like this?' Colin rushes on, giving a gentle roll of his hips. ' 'Cause I could, but I'd also love – ' And he's about to say some hopefully classier version of 'a go at what's in your shorts, with my face' when there's an uptick in the sounds of the storm – rain drumming furiously on the balcony doors, fresh growls of thunder, the twitch of a frown in Bradley's eyes.

So what comes out instead is, 'I tell a lie. Want to make _that_ disappear. For you.'

'What?' The eye-frown deepens, tugging at Bradley's brows.

'The head gremlins. Bad memories. Whatever it is with the storm. Let's make you feel so amazing there's no room for anything else.'

One brow escapes, pulls up a haughty corner of lip. 'You think you can?'

'Oh I _know_ I can,' Colin says with a cheeky smile, not sure of any such thing, but thinking that there's nothing he'd rather be doing than trying. All about the process, is Colin.

Bradley swoops in for a sudden kiss, more a mash of tongue and teeth, then he's disentangling himself and rolling onto his back. He scoots up until he's leaning against the headboard and spreads his arms wide. 

'Have at it then,' he says with a shit-eating grin, and Colin's not even trying to hide the way he's staring at the swell of balls and fat cock-ridge distending the front of Bradley's shorts when he adds, 'Anywhere there's bare skin is fair game. For now.'

There's not a word in English for what Colin wants to call Bradley – no words in the whole wide _universe_ for how turned on he is right now, because while he never plays coy, he doesn't mind being made to work for it so long as everything's friendly – so he dives in, nestles in real close with a hand on Bradley's stomach and puts his lips to one stupid pretty ear. 

He dredges up the worst his granny used to come out with, some Irish curse about devils and cats and maybe one or the other tearing Bradley a new one, says it slow and loving-like as he scritches soft belly skin and a few stray, kinky hairs, circles that wide, gaping belly-button, as big as a nipple, and it'd be a lie to say Colin's never thought of what he could stick in there.

'You're saying something vile, aren't you?' Bradley's trying to keep his tone light, but his voice is husky, and Colin can feel the stuttered in-out of his breath – can _see_ the way Bradley's cock moves in his shorts.

'Wouldn't you like to know?'

'Sticks and stones, Colin.'

'Not trying to hurt you, though am I?' he whispers, then kisses, sucks at the patch of skin behind Bradley's ear, until his breath is heaving in his chest, singsongs, ' _Dé Luain, Dé Máirt, Dé Céadaoin… Beidh brú ort ansin i gceann cúpla lá._ ' All the while snickering, as the latter's one of the few phrases that stuck from school, and never in his life did he think to have such a splendid occasion to use it. Bradley _will_ have a bruise there in a couple of days; Colin will see to it, and let it never be said that he never does anything nice for Makeup.

'And what's that, when it's at home?' Bradley's breathless, belly jumping beneath Colin's touch.

'Ooh, up for it now, are we? What was it you called it that one time? Filthy – no, _sodding_ – peat patter.'

'Shut up. I was only – '

'Make me.'

'I – '

'Seriously, _make me._ ' 

' _Christ_ – '

'Can't help you now, big man. Believe me, I know.' Colin kisses Bradley's earlobe, his neck, rubs his face hard over the stubble blooming along his jaw and trails his fingers _just_ above the waistband of Bradley's shorts. 'What d'you want to do about it?'

'What do you want me to do?' Bradley's eyes are closed, his body tense, his brow – once more – furrowed. 'Shit, I _told_ you. This is a bit new.'

'Then… Jaysus, Bradley. Just _let_ me. Let me make you feel good.'

'But I…' He opens his eyes, turning his head so their noses are practically touching, his expression too near to parse. 'What about you? I want to – '

Colin cuts him off with a kiss, following a whim, a hunch – or perhaps the ghosts of Katie's whiskey. Just how he likes it this time, lips and _lips_ , then tongue, then an all-access pass to the warmth beyond, until he's lost his sense of down and up. 

'And I want _you_ ,' he says when they've been at it so long their tastes are blurred, their lips tacky with shared spit. 'Wouldn't have kissed you like that, wouldn’t have got hard just from the sound of your voice, before I ever touched you – wouldn't have offered the massage in the first place, to be honest.'

He feels, more than hears, the hitch in Bradley's breath. It occurs to him that Bradley has no idea what Colin is or isn't like with his partners, hasn't a fecking clue how entirely sold he was on this concept before Bradley ever set foot in his room – hasn't a fecking clue about the glory hole in Paris, the cock he'd _almost_ sucked, pretending it was Bradley's, or the offers he's turned down in favour of his own fingers, a slick palm, and guilty thoughts of his co-star.

'Shite,' Colin murmurs. He's so used to them being on the same wavelength on set, finishing one another's jokes, that he'd assumed the same applies here. He pulls back, thumb on Bradley's chin. 'Ehm, I think we skipped the bit where I tell you that while I'm right fecking choosey, I'm no nun… And that I've been mad about you for ages.'

Bradley laughs. Colin's big dredged-up from the depths confession and what does Bradley do but drag Colin further on top of him and _laugh._ In his face.

It takes a moment for Colin to process that this is what's happening, as it starts with a sound like a trapped sneeze, Bradley's face going all twitchy. But soon enough he's jiggling them both with the force of it, eyes creasing up as his snort turns into a chuckle turns into the indoor, intimate version of his full-on laugh.

He's got his arms round Colin's back, slid up underneath his pyjama top, hands growing bolder the more Colin glares, stroking, squeezing him tight.

'Oh, Colin. "Right fecking choosey." Always know how to make a man feel special.' Bradley puts on his twee Norn Iron voice, the one that's supposed to sound like Colin.

Colin wrinkles his nose. 'Well I _am._ '

'I know.'

'Though just at the minute I'm questioning my taste.'

Bradley grins wide, like he's been paid a compliment. 'You really don’t remember, do you?'

'What?'

'That night in Soissons, the singing and dan– '

'Alleged.'

' _Witnessed,_ mate. But that's beside the point. It's what you said when the girls were trying to rope you in on that "shag, marry, throw off a cliff" thing.'

'Ehm.' Colin can just about picture the night in question – sitting outside in the velvet night, packed in under awnings and fairy lights, the ubiquitous wooden hoardings and bottomless carafes of house red. Some crew member's birthday coinciding with a break and Colin desperate to escape his own head for a few hours. Bread and wine and olives and wine and… more wine. 'Remember being there, but I'm a bit hazy on the conversation.'

'You threw everyone off a cliff.'

Colin chuckles. 'Really?'

Bradley nods. 'Every last one. Even hot Gareth and the waiter who looked like James Dean. Immediately and without hesitation.'

'See? Right fecking choosey.'

'Indeed.' Bradley gives his back a slow rub, expression easing into something less cocky and a bit pink round the edges. 'Then Katie spotted me – '

'Shite.' Colin winces.

' – and I guess you hadn't got round to me yet, so she's all shrieking "What about _him_?" and you said – '

' _Shite_.' Colin buries his face against Bradley's chest, thinking that the shame of whatever's coming next can't be the worst thing if it means getting to hide out here. All the times he's looked, envied, teased, _couldn't_ look for fear of being caught looking in the wrong way. Bradley with his top off again – no big deal! – except Colin's tongue dry in his mouth and fingers curled safely into his palms. Every damn time.

'Exactly!' Colin feels Bradley's chuckle at the source, feels the warm, restless hands pause, spanning his lower back. 'Then – and you were just staring, bobbling your head to and fro, sizing me up with this tragic look on your face – you said, "Well, I can't throw him off a cliff, can I? 'Cause Merlin would have to go after him, then we'd all be out our jobs," and staggered off to the toilet.'

Colin groans as Bradley chuckles again. 'Such an arse when I'm wasted,' he mumbles. Then, peering up, 'Wait. So your takeaway from that was that I _actually_ wanted to shag or marry you?'

'Katie said both.'

'Ugh. I should have sewed her lips shut. Or _mine._ '

'But then I wouldn’t have later overheard you telling Angel you thought my arse would look better sitting on your face.'

' _No._ '

Bradley gives his back what he assumes is meant to be a reassuring squeeze, nudges Colin's head with his chin. 'Gave me plenty to think about. Thought it might get awkward with you after, but it just… It wasn't. Ever. And I kept thinking about it, about _you_ in that way, and it kept getting me, well....' Bradley rocks his hips, as if Colin might've forgot the cock that's now lodged against him like a friendly drunk. 

'But mainly? I feel good when I'm around you, Col. Awake. And I…' Bradley trails off with a huff.

'What?' Colin lifts his head, pushes back until he's got Bradley in focus. 'You what?'

Bradley grimaces. 'It's got so that I kind of want to punch anyone who looks at you the way you looked at me that night. So.'

'Ah.' Colin nods. 'That about the size of it, then?'

Bradley nods back, eyes solemn. Colin leans in until he can smile against his lips. 'I can definitely work with that,' he murmurs, sliding a hand down – over nipple, ribs, belly – and cupping Bradley through his shorts.

For a moment it's a bit weird, holding him like this. Such vital, defenceless flesh and nothing innocent about the touch, yet the eyes staring back at him are _Bradley's._ That internal slap of _nobadwrong,_ the inherent awkwardness of groping a mate. 

Then Bradley's kissing him, pushing into his hand – all eager mouth and hips – and making this sound in the back of his throat that makes Colin _ache._ All awkwardness shrugged off in favour of wanting to honour whatever this is, this thing that's got him feeling both gut-punched and giddy, this savage tenderness. For Bradley. For Bradley's thinking his way towards wanting him. For his lovely warm body, his fear of thunderstorms and bravery in the face of everything else and his fat, happy handful of cock.

'That's…cheating,' Bradley gets out between kisses. 'Not bare – _ah_ – skin.'

'Apologies,' Colin murmurs. He lifts his hand but Bradley takes hold of his wrist, guides it back between his legs.

'Didn't say to stop.'

Colin lets his fingertips skim Bradley's shaft in favour of cupping his balls, letting his fingertips wander, pressing the damp, soft fabric into the taut muscle back behind. Pushing at the root of his cock, sliding his middle finger along Bradley's taint, remembering the intense pleasure panic he'd felt the first time someone had touched him there, shown him all the wonders to be had beyond a spit-slick palm worrying at his knob-end.

This isn't Bradley's first time, going by his reaction. He only hums, parts his legs, and keeps pushing into Colin's hand. Keeps wringing kisses from the corners of Colin's mouth between breathless encouragements. He wonders if it was some arse-savvy ex, or if Bradley's always done this for himself. Is suddenly dying to know how he gets himself off.

'So fix it, big man,' Colin says, ceasing the fondling and stroking, pausing with his knuckles wedged just under the whole maddening package. 'Lose the shorts. I'm no nun, but I'm no cheat either.' 

Bradley responds with a snort, an exaggerated sigh. 'If you insist… Shove over a minute.'

It's almost comical, the way Bradley shucks off his shorts and socks and vigorously flings them off the end of the bed. But there's an ease to all his movements, an athletic grace – he's one of those actors who actually has to work at clumsy – so it's less funny than it might be. Doesn't lessen the ache.

Colin sits up and removes his pyjama top, but leaves the bottoms on. He reaches to switch off the bedside lamp but Bradley stops him, saying, 'Leave it,' in a desperate tone that has Colin wondering if he's a wee bit frightened of the dark as well, or if it's just that he wants to _see_ , which is – 

Colin feels a sudden warmth on the back of his neck. A hand, then – he smiles – a nose, the faint scrape of cheek and chin stubble, the press of lips. Bradley kneeling up behind him, kissing his neck, sending violent shivers down Colin's spine.

'You cold?' 

Hands chafing his shoulders, then one arm slipping underneath his, sliding across his chest. Fingers grazing one nipple, then the other.

'No, just…' Colin takes a calming breath, tries to surreptitiously adjust himself so his prick's not bashed against the single button that's – barely – holding his fly closed. Hearing Bradley's chuckle, he hits back with, 'You trying to feel me up?'

'Maybe.' Bradley kisses him again, squeezes his pec. 'That a problem?'

Only if you're disappointed, Colin thinks. But for all the tension he's feeling in that regard, it seems too petty to say aloud; Bradley knows exactly what Colin is and what he isn't, has no patience for people who fish for compliments.

So instead he leans back into the embrace, saying, 'No. Most guys wait until the second date, is all.'

There's an indignant sound, a hot rush of breath on Colin's neck. Then he's being manhandled, dragged onto his back and straddled to the tune of, 'Forgive me, Colin. My mistake. I thought, given all your filthy talk and where you've been putting _your_ hands that we were on our third, at least – though I'll admit I'm not as clear on where _this_ falls in the order of things.' 

Colin grunts as Bradley, cupping himself in one hand and bracing himself on Colin's chest with the other, drags his bare arse along Colin's trapped erection then fecking _settles_ atop it, squeezing his muscles so hard Colin can’t help but thrust into their grip, just a wee bit.

'Now,' he says, grinning up at Bradley once he's got his breath under control. 'Now's really _really_ good. Let's just say – I'm that kind of boy if you are.'

Bradley's eyes flit back and forth, studying Colin's. 'I think you're _every_ kind of boy.'

' _Any_ ,' Colin corrects, holding his gaze. He relaxes his grip on Bradley's thigh and a fistful of duvet, spreads his arms out, palms up. Tries to relax everything else. 'With you, any. Whatever you need.'

Colin sees Bradley's nostrils flare as he takes this in, the slight, startled part of his lips before he swallows, nods. He lets go of himself, dark pink sac spilling onto Colin's belly, hard cock jutting above it – and _oh_ but it is as lovely and sturdy as the rest of him – and pulls Colin's hand back onto his right thigh.

He clenches his arse again, says, 'I'm used to getting girls – partners – off first, before I…'

Colin feels the fondness leaking out all over his face. Again. 'Chivalry with a capital O?'

Bradley's brow furrows for a moment; when he gets it, he gives an amused snort, a shrug. 'Something like that.'

Colin feels he should protest for manners' sake, or explain why he finds the tit-for-tat approach to orgasms a slippery slope towards tit-for-tat everything else. But given the position he's in – given the sight before him – he's thoroughly unmotivated to do so. There's only so much a body can resist, and naked Bradley offering a friendly hand, except _with his arse_ and wanting to get Colin off first is not one of those things.

'Touch yourself,' he says, entangling their fingers and moving their joined hands back towards Bradley's cock. 'Or rather, use my hand. Show me how you like it.'

Bradley resists, looking at him with a nonplussed expression. 'That's not – '

'It's what I want,' Colin cuts in, jiggling his hand. 'C'mon. Just… keep doing what you're – yes, feck, _that_ – but let me touch you. Make me touch you, just how you want.'

Bradley relents, but as he arranges Colin's hand on his shaft he mutters, 'Maybe I want it how _you_ want it.'

'In that case I'd be using my mouth, and you'd be – '

'Alright, alright. _Christ,_ Col, just shut up and… Here.'

Bradley starts him off with a squeeze, then a drag up the shaft. A pause. Another squeeze, making a snug collar just below his glans. He rocks into it once, twice – Colin loses track of how many times – working Colin's cock on every back-thrust, which is _heaven._ A bit too dry and a bit too hard, but if heaven were perfect it _wouldn't_ be, else what would make stained, happy little sinners such as himself even want to bother?

Bradley's dropped his head, chin tucked to his chest and mouth hanging open; Colin can't tell whether his eyes are open or closed. He kind of wants to close his own, the better to appreciate all the sensations, but the sight of Bradley using his hand as a wank-puppet is so perfectly obscene he can't look away. 

He has some internal Morse code, long, steady, somewhat looser strokes followed by short bursts of intense pressure at the head. After a few rounds of this he leaves Colin to it and moves his hand to the base of his shaft, where he clamps down tight and picks up the pace with the rhythmic arse grinding. 

By now Colin's pyjamas are wedged good and tight at his groin, dragged up by Bradley's movements. Everything's starting to feel just shy of too much. Colin grips Bradley's left thigh with his free hand to get his attention, whispers, 'Lift up a bit? Just a – yeah, that's grand.'

Bradley, bless him, complies without breaking his rhythm or putting any more weight on Colin's chest. Takes it all in the abs and those glorious thighs.

Colin shifts his hips, wriggles until his balls feel as if they can breathe again. Then, still clutching at cock and thigh – there's something about the different skin textures, the different bit-of-Bradley densities filling and heating his palms that is satisfying and wonderfully grounding – Colin finally closes his eyes and catches the rhythm, hitching his hips to meet Bradley's arse, finding the sweetest mix of pressure and glide.

It's reminding him of something, the way Bradley is moving – unrelenting, pushing Colin just a bit faster, urging him higher, demanding _more._ By the time he realises what it is, and where Bradley's learnt it, too, it's all over but the shouting. 

Sharp, sudden hammer-release of tension, that last frantic sprint of thrusting hips and yes, Bradley is fecking _riding_ him. Riding him with a driving seat like a stubborn horse, just like Dylan taught them and… Oh, oh that is sick fecking _bliss._

Colin can come quietly when he wants to. He doesn't, just now. He wants the bone-deep pleasure of emptying his balls and his lungs, giving in to that primal elation of coming-as-victory. No matter what in or on, no matter the nearby wriggling death throes of millions of sperm, his brain high on sex-dope, his body shouting _Yes, we did it!_ He wants Bradley to hear him too, to let him know how he's wrecking Colin just like this, making him mess his pyjamas like a grotty schoolboy. 

He anchors himself on Bradley throughout, no longer able to co-ordinate his movements but simply hanging on, thinking here's Bradley's cock, his thigh, his knee. Still warm, still real – saints be praised! – and yes, _yes_ let's keep them.

It's not until he's sliding down the backside of his orgasm, muscle spasms giving way to a creeping heaviness, that he finally lets go. Arms flopped to his sides. Legs as limp as his prick. Heart a burst balloon and head feeling as if it's put on a stone and will soon be sinking through the mattress.

'You,' he pants. 'That… Bradley… Dylan never said you could… horses… Can't be legal with _people,_ jaysus havering _christ._ ' 

He hears a querulous grunt, cranks his eyes open to find Bradley staring down at him, cheeks red and brow pinched, breath coming in open-mouthed gusts. 

Colin blinks, sucks in enough air to – hopefully – re-inflate his lungs and help him string more than two words together. There's nothing he can do about his heart though. He wonders if he's just violated the 'no extreme activities' clause in his contract. 

'You perfect _bastard_ ,' he says. It comes out all gluey and fond, thick with the sounds of home, even to his own ears. 'You just rode me like one of your bloody horses, didn't you? I feel so – ' He breaks off when he clocks the way Bradley's chest and stomach are heaving, his thigh muscles straining, his hand milking his cock.

'What the – _no._ ' He struggles to sit up, pushing Bradley's arms away. 'No no no, _wait._ What are you doing?'

'Why're you…? Colin, your face just now, I need… I was about to – '

'Yes, exactly. My face. Your cock. Don't you _dare_ steal my money shot.'

'What?' Bradley stares at him like a child who's just had his lolly snatched and tossed under a bus for no discernible reason. His cockhead's cherry-bright and damp, leaking precome; as Colin watches a thick bead of it wells up and drizzles down the side. He unconsciously swallows.

'C'mere,' he says, flopping back onto an elbow and patting his chest. Then, as Bradley continues to gawp, he clarifies. 'Shift that gorgeous arse up here, big man. I meant what I said. I want you in my mouth.'

'You… right.' Bradley closes his mouth and gives a sharp shake of his head, as if coming up from underwater. His gaze shifts from Colin to the bed to the room beyond, expression flat save for a faint scowl at the scene outside. The wind's still gusting, raking the glass with a fresh volley of raindrops. 'Condoms?'

'Oh, ehm, no I…' _Shite._ No, he doesn’t have condoms in his room. Never expected to be having any sort of sex while filming in Cardiff because it’s not like he has the time or energy to go out on the pull, and it's not like Bradley was ever going to swan into his room thumb-popping the cap on a fresh tube of KY saying, 'Colin, I'm bored – fancy a fuck?'

Chance would be a fine fecking thing _clearly_ doesn't mean what it used to.

Colin listens to the rain, watches as Bradley's cock pulses out another fat drop of clear fluid. He feels a visceral longing to taste it, hold it on his tongue. Warmth to warmth and wet to wet. 

'Don't really need 'em for this, do we?' 

' _Don't_ we?' Flicker of something on Bradley's face. Surprise? Unease?

Colin bites his lip, shrugs. He knows the risks, he does. After he'd sort of sidled, foot in mouth, into an admission of yes alright maybe being one of _those_ sort of theatre people, his mother had plied him with a sheaf of horrifying pamphlets from the 80s, then advised him to look up more current information online. 

But. 

Just because he knows it's unwise – just 'cause every excuse for why it _isn't_ sounds, in his head, as if it's been lifted from some grim-faced penitent in a Public Information Film – doesn’t mean he doesn’t crave it with every cock-sucking fibre of his being.

'Prefer to taste you,' Colin admits. Going by the way Bradley's eyes widen, he's betting that's not something he's heard before. Interesting. 'And if you tell me you're clean, I'll believe you.'

'Bloody _hell_ , that's…' 

'I know.'

Bradley scrubs a hand over his face, screwing a thumb into the spot between his brows, and Colin lowers his eyes. He's not ashamed so much as worried what he'll see when the hand drops.

'Colin, I… ' With a gusty sigh Bradley clambers off, exposing the damp wreck of Colin's pyjama bottoms and the wrinkled duvet. Colin looks away. 

Anonymous wardrobe, brushed steel floor lamp, framed print of the old coal docks. All same-but-different to what Bradley's got in his room. He's a fool for thinking that whatever friendship and working intimacy they've built between them would automatically transfer here, to _this,_ that Bradley's unexpected interest was the golden ticket that would magic all other barriers away. 

He's startled by the hand on his chest, jerking as a heavy warmth settles along his right side.

'You said whatever I need, yeah?'

'Aye.' Colin won't look. He _can't_.

'Then – hey, _hey._ ' The hand slides up, grasping his chin and turning it towards Bradley. He's shocked to find him looking about how Colin feels – awkward, little bit annoyed, a lot bit terrified – except with a massive hard-on still. 'What I need right _now_ is to know if this can happen again, if that's something you'd be up for, or…'

'Aye,' Colin says. Knee-jerk. No thought required. Even if it ends up a cooling, sticky mess like the one in his trousers. 'Yes, again. Yes up for.'

Bradley's look of relief swiftly blends into a familiar arrogance. 'Good,' he says, the smile there in his eyes if not on his lips. 'In that case, I'd like some more of this – ' He leans in for a solid kiss, then releases Colin's chin and trails his hand down to catch at his fingers. ' – and _these,_ and let's save the cock-sucking for another day.'

Colin's still reeling from the firm swipe of Bradley's tongue, from the jolt of _oh I've missed this_ so it takes him a moment to process what's just happened. What Bradley's said is saying is seeming to offer and – 

Colin surges onto his side, mashing his lips to Bradley's for another kiss. Inviting more of that tongue, lapping up the startled laugh Bradley gives when Colin tries sucking it into his mouth. Bradley retaliates by dragging spit-wet lips along Colin's jaw, nosing at his cheek, his ear.

'Another _day_?' Colin murmurs, chasing that mouth. 'You're mad if you think I'm going to give you head on set.'

'Figure of speech, wiseguy,' Bradley says against his ear, sparking a violent shiver. He follows the words with a lick, a nibble on Colin's earlobe. 'Though if you surprise me sometime behind Arthur's changing screen, I might let you.'

'Might _beg_ me.'

'Never.' Bradley plants a smacking kiss below his ear, another on his cheek. 'Never never. Not going to happen. Bradley doesn't beg.'

Colin smiles hard against his jaw, groping between them for the spongy satin wet of Bradley's cock and curling his fingers around it.

'Hm. Let's see about that, shall we?'

The urgency may be gone on Colin's end, but the hunger's not going away. If anything it's worse, the way a few scraps in an empty belly only remind it what it's been missing. Numbed senses made raw once again, primed for craving. No more hiding from the fact that running about with a smile on his face doesn’t mean he's not dying of want on the inside.

They've completely worn the whiskey out of Bradley's mouth now, and Colin likes what he's found beneath. Likes, too, the realisation that Bradley's as handsy with his mouth as he is with his other parts – isn’t just a grabber but a loiterer, a fondler, a nuzzler. 

When Colin forces himself to back off, to give way and let Bradley lead, the result reminds him so much of running lines – Bradley always leaning in, always teasing petting prodding, anything to get and keep Colin's undivided attention – that he smiles into the next kiss.

'What're you sniggering about, Morgan?'

'Think I know how to make you beg now.'

'Oh _do_ you?'

'Oh aye.' Colin smiles wider as Bradley's nose butts up against his ear and his cheek's repeatedly stroked by a ringed thumb. He stills his hand on Bradley's cock. 'You're a bit sweet on my face, aren't you? Bet if I took my face away, you'd – '

'Shut up,' Bradley murmurs, not helping his case any by tracing Colin's brows and one cheekbone with his fingertips, pressing the tip of his thumb into the divot between mouth and chin. Then he takes hold of Colin's smile, squashing the ends in until it's more of a fish pucker and kissing him like that, loud and wet.

Colin's trying to stifle a laugh when Bradley lets go, reaching down between them. Colin thinks he means to speed his hand, using it as Colin had encouraged him to do earlier, but instead he pries it from his cock, saying, 'When I said I wanted more of these, I meant…'

He shifts his grip to Colin's knuckles, finding and pressing the base of Colin's middle finger.

'… _this,_ ' he says, and Colin stops breathing as Bradley sucks his finger into his mouth.

Colin, in fact, fears he might never breathe _again_ as he watches Bradley's eyelids come down, smooth serene brow and soft lashes far too innocent for what his mouth's doing. Velvet tongue cradling his finger, strong suction from throat and cheeks as he works up a small ocean of spit. 

It's warm, too, but nowhere near as warm as it will be…

Colin has to close his eyes for a moment to ground himself, opens them as his finger's released to find Bradley's eyes on him, all pupils and heavy lids, maybe a lingering question in the brows but Colin puts that to rest with an ardent, 'Jaysus, _yes._ Here, shift up a bit. Give us your leg just – ' Colin jerks his chin toward his left shoulder.

'You sure? Won't I – '

'No. _Please,_ just… Not gonna break, man. C'mon.'

'Look who's begging now,' Bradley murmurs, but Colin doesn't give a single fecking fig because Bradley's sweat-slick chest is at eye level and he's slinging his leg up and Colin's got access to that soft, hot crease back behind his balls. He gives it a brisk rub, then sinks his finger knuckle-deep into the pucker before the spit dries. 

Bradley exhales in a forced rush, a low whine caged in the back of his throat. Colin doesn’t know if it's a good sound or a bad sound, bites down on his lower lip to force himself to calm down and breathe and fecking _wait._

When Bradley squirms his right hand down between them and starts jerking himself off, eyes half-lidded and mouth hanging open – well, if that's not an engraved invitation, Colin doesn’t know what is. He works his finger in the rest of the way, meeting the surge of Bradley's hips, gently circling and crooking the tip of his finger until it's found… 

And _oh yes,_ this is much, much warmer. He takes back what he was thinking earlier about heaven because no, see, this here is heaven and it is, indeed, _perfect._

Bradley moans. Colin scrabbles to retrieve the hand that's shoved under his armpit and slides it up round his neck, pulling Bradley's head down to suck at his parted lips, to lick the next moan off his tongue. Then, between Bradley's wanking, hip-thrusts and the stuttered _huh-huh-huh_ of his breath, Colin finds the rhythm he likes and begins fingering him, finger _fucking_ him in earnest, just hanging on, kissing whatever he can reach – throat, collar bone, chest – then drawing one taut nipple into his mouth. 

He's not sure if the thunder's come back, if that's Bradley's heart banging away at his ribs, or if his own has revived; before he can sort it out there's a throaty, 'Ah _christ_ Col _nnngh…_ ' and his finger's being squeezed. A heel is digging into his shoulder blade. First hot spurt of come surprise-hitting his chin, the rest bathing his chest in pulses of warm, pungent wet.

This is the stuff, Colin thinks. All those times he's watched Bradley laugh himself breathless – sweaty fringe, spreading limbs and wide, blinding smile – and couldn't rid himself of the image later, wondering what it would be like to feel it up close, chest to chest; this is far better. 

Bradley's heaving chest and happy hum. A mumbled swear and apology as he takes a lazy thumb-swipe at the mess on Colin's chin. Bradley curled into Colin, giving him all his weight for a brief, blissful moment while his breath evens out and Colin rocking them both, just a little, to feel the full truth of it.

He knows love's meant to be deeper than this, meant to be more than bodies catching and holding in the night, but right now he can't tell the difference. This feels about as deep as it gets. 

'I've got you,' he murmurs, cradling the back of Bradley's head, withdrawing his finger and indulging in a more leisurely massage of the surrounding skin. It's what his granny used to say, though under _very_ different circumstances, and his mind can't help but spin out the rest: _Oíche maith, codladh sámh a chuisle mo chroí._

He grins, wondering what Bradley would say if he told him right now that he was thinking of his granny. He decides it's one of those stories he'll save for later. For later if… for later when…

He's still trying to fix on what the appropriate timing and circumstances would be for _that_ sort of confession when Bradley stirs. 

All too soon, the disentangling begins. All too soon the soft groans and pulling away, the stretching, the scratching, Colin thinking he should get up, go wash, offer Bradley… well, _say_ something, at least – at least _move,_ give some indication that he's not planning on passing out here in his grotty pyjama bottoms covered in Bradley's come. 

His body, however, is apparently not fussed about any of this. It's quite content as it is, simultaneously sprawled on the bed and floating a few centimetres above it, awash in gooey hormones.

It's Bradley who solves the problem with a trip to the en suite. He returns with a damp, warm flannel that he drops on Colin's chest with a chuckle and, 'You should wipe that look off your face, for starters.'

Colin thinks about lifting his head and sticking his tongue out at Bradley as he disappears back into the en suite, but it's too much effort. Instead, he does some more daft grinning up at the ceiling as he shuffles the flannel round his chest and neck.

By the time Bradley re-emerges he's worked up the legs for standing, which brings with it an urgent demand from his bladder.

'Toilet,' he says as he nips by Bradley. His face has a slightly puzzled, miffed expression on it, as if to say, 'But I brought you a warm flannel!' and Colin wonders if he was meant to stay swooning in bed. 

He can't help but smile at the idea after he shuts the door – is _still_ smiling down at his prick as he shakes it off, at his reflection in the mirror as he gives his hands a proper wash. He thinks he should remember this look, in case he ever has to play a village idiot who's just been caught shagging in a barn full of nitrous.

Colin exits the en suite to find Bradley sitting on the bed in his shorts, elbows on knees, shirt balled between his hands. He's facing the glass doors, but his head's bowed. Outside, the wind has died down. It's still raining heavily, but it sounds like ordinary rain, the trailing skirts of the storm.

When Bradley looks over, Colin gets a blast of that raw boyish eagerness – joy and hope and sunny skies leaking from every pore – before he visibly reins it in. 

Colin's taken aback because it's one, _overwhelming,_ but also because it's something he's only ever witnessed Bradley doing around Tony. And his taken-aback-ness on top of his high, recently-shagged village idiot look must register as something unpleasant, for Bradley abruptly stands, face going all grown-up and horribly calm.

'Right,' he says, shaking out his shirt. 'It's late. I'll let you get some sleep.'

Colin's a second away from saying something stupid, and likely rude, when he notices that Bradley's turned down the bed – plumped the pillows, too, by the looks of it.

'Bradley?'

'Did you happen to see where my – '

' _Bradley._ ' Colin skirts the desk, crosses to the bunched column of curtains at one end of the balcony doors and fumbles for the baton to pull them across the glass. 'Get the lamp, will you?'

'Sure thing, man. Just need to find my – '

'Get in _bed, man,_ then get the lamp,' Colin clarifies, looking over his shoulder. 'Unless you sleep with the lights on?'

Bradley's got his shirt on and is crouched by the desk, peering beneath it.

'What?' he says, flustered. Then, 'Oh. No. Dark's good.' He stands up, scratching his head, the fingers of his other hand curled in the hem of his shirt. 'You're sure you don't mind my staying?'

'Not at all.' Colin throws Bradley a wink, then turns back to the curtains, yanks them the rest of the way across with a flourish. 'Been dying to sleep with you, me.'

'Because, for the record, your face just now…'

Colin turns. He pinches up a wad of cheek skin and tries looking down his nose at it. 'Didn’t you hear? I'm not responsible for my face right now.'

Bradley laughs as he pulls his shirt off again. He tosses it onto the chair – where Colin sees he's already draped Colin's pyjama top – and climbs into bed. 

'What the hell?' he says, watching the show as Colin derps his way over to the wardrobe, prodding his nose, shaking his head as if he's trying to clear water from his ears. 

'I think you broke it.' 

'Is that so?' Colin can hear the smile in his voice. 'Well, I'd offer to buy it off you, Cols, but I doubt I could afford it.' 

'True,' Colin agrees as he opens the wardrobe, 'but perhaps I'd let you work it off in trade.' Bradley's laugh hits him between the shoulder blades, causing a spreading warmth that has him curling his toes into the carpet and wincing at his own daring. 

He fishes a fresh pair of kex from the jumble in the uppermost drawer and trades them for his soiled pyjama bottoms as quick as he can – he knows Bradley's watching this show, too – without it seeming like he's hurrying. Bradley's seen him in shorts, already knows how self-conscious Colin is about his hairy spider legs; the pasty bum and thighs can hardly come as a shock. 

He shoves the wadded up bottoms into his laundry bag and closes the wardrobe. Before heading back to the bed, he detours to put the chain on the door. It's a familiar routine, but suddenly shiny-thrilling-new, not so much keeping people out as keeping _this_ safe. Himself and Bradley. _Bradley_ in his fecking _bed._

Colin smiles at the soft _snick_ of the chain in the slot. He turns to find Bradley lying right smack dab in the middle, arms crossed up behind his head like he's sunning himself. 

'You have a side?' Bradley says, gaze lingering on the striped boxer briefs before wandering up. 

Colin pretends to consider it as he slides under the duvet. 'Middle, most nights. Reckon we have a problem?'

'Reckon we might have to share.' Bradley uncrosses his arms and opens them wide.

'Lamp,' Colin says, making a cross face as he points across Bradley's chest. 'Lamp _off._ ' 

Bradley rolls his eyes but hoists himself up on one elbow and twists, reaching towards the bedside lamp. The last things Colin notices before they're plunged into the utter, new-dark blackness are the faint bluish veins under the fishbelly skin of Bradley's armpit, the mouth-sized red mark coming up just behind his ear. He vows to keep these safe, too.

'Reckon we do,' he whispers once they've found one another in the dark, their bare legs touching – bare legs and bare chests, open hands, a kiss that they have to grope their way into. It starts out almost shy, in soft laughter and a fumble of lips, but quickly becomes heated, all pressure and suction, the aggressive slide of tongues. It's one of Colin's favourite kind of kisses, the ones that aren't leading anywhere, that are 'just because' or – perhaps – are reminders that the want's still there, that no one's over this just yet.

After, there's a bit of a tussle, of Bradley rolling over Colin so he's on the side nearest the room door, of Colin turning onto his right side because his back's cold and Bradley's warm, of Bradley settling on his side, too, and pulling Colin back against his chest, knees wedged up behind Colin's bum. 

If they were standing, Colin realises, he'd be practically sitting on Bradley's lap. For a moment this is awkward, verging on terrifying. Then Bradley starts rubbing slow circles on his chest, and it's also really fecking _nice._

'Lucky we're good at that, then. Sharing.'

'Aye,' Colin says, though up 'til tonight he thinks that mostly it's been Bradley sharing things with him, and not the other way round. He's looking forward to the idea of changing this, but knows it won't necessarily be easy.

'Lucky we're good at weird as well.'

'Hm?'

Bradley nuzzles the back of his head. 'In case you were worried about it getting weird between us.'

Colin's not entirely joking when he says, 'Can it actually _get_ any weirder?' For it seems as if, in addition to getting memories of Colin's granny mixed up in some very granny-inappropriate goings-on, Bradley's now started reading his thoughts.

Bradley taps a finger on Colin's chest. 'Exactly.'

Colin's just drifting off, warmer and more content than he's ever been in a foreign bed, when Bradley says, 'Cols? I still don't get it though, about the feet water.'

'Mnh?' Colin opens his eyes, can just about make out the outlines of the nightstand and chair now that his eyes have adjusted.

'Leaving aside how spilt water manages to open a door, why can't you trick the fairies into washing their own feet, then use that water to force them back outside – or to let you into their house? Like on _Buffy,_ when Willow… 

'Or you know what would work, too? That barrier spell she does, the steel air thing. Fairies are afraid of steel, aren't they? Or is that iron? Anyways, _then_ you could…'

On and on, in a murmur rich and soft as silk, as thick as homemade jam. Colin closes his eyes. He falls asleep with a smile on his lips, trying to remember the last time someone told him a bedtime story.

*** * ***

**Epilogue: BFI Series 3 Screening in London, September 5, 2010**

'The storm is coming.'

Colin says it without thinking. He's running on adrenaline and not enough tea, trying to keep from face-planting onto the table while Bradley's sat there looking irritatingly cool and fresh as a daisy in one of the shirts Colin's given him – _and_ with his damn man-cleavage on display. 

Colin's main concerns, apart from not face-planting onto the table, are stringing words together – preferably in some sort of English – _not_ acknowledging said man-cleavage, and not dropping any spoilers that'll get him in the shite with the Js. So when the interviewer asks him about taglines, he says the first generic trailer-voiceover-sounding thing that pops into his head. 

He doesn't associate it with _that thing they do_ – that thing on set where the faintest breeze or scrap of cloud is grounds for increasingly dire weather predictions, until anyone within earshot is pulling a face, shaking his or her head in bemusement, never once guessing that an invitation's just been issued and accepted – until he realises Bradley hasn't looked away, is focussed 110% on Colin, fist over his mouth, one eyebrow twitching upwards as if to say, 'Seriously, here? _Now?_ '

'That's it?' the woman says, similarly unimpressed. 'That's your tagline?'

Bradley recovers quickly, as he does in all things. 'The _storm_ is coming,' he repeats, as if weighing it, still hiding his mouth until he's wiped the more private smile from it.

'Not from X-Men,' Colin adds, riffing off Bradley's emphasis.

'Wow.' Bradley's _still_ not looking away, and Colin's really wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

'No, not that Storm,' the woman agrees with a laugh.

'Oh, but that's what I was thinking,' Bradley says, nudging a foot against Colin's, and Colin's suddenly stammering, trying to get things back on track but having no idea what he's going to say next.

'Yeah but there is a feeling that… that the thing – '

'That weather gets _really_ bad in Camelot,' Bradley cuts in earnestly, making everyone laugh, throwing Colin a lifeline and a challenge both. The weather _has_ been getting really bad in Camelot of late – in France, England, Wales, and wherever their promotional work takes them; so bad, in fact, that Bradley's been making noises about them sharing a place when filming starts up again, as it'd be simpler than sneaking back and forth between one another's rooms.

'Yeah!' Colin says, picking both lifeline and challenge up and clinging for all he's worth. 'Rains _all_ the time. The storm's coming!' He points up over his shoulder for comic effect. 

Then, not daring to look at Bradley, he adds, 'Depends how you say it,' while nudging back with his foot. And just so there's no mistake, he spreads his legs wide, until their knees touch beneath the table. 

The bright, startled laugh this earns him, a stepped, trademark-Bradley 'Yah-ha-HA- _HA!_ ' is totally worth Colin's losing the plot for the next minute. He babbles a whole lot of shite about darkness and light at the woman – who's kind enough to nod like yes, he's making sense, and no, she's never heard this before – while Bradley just sits there letting him do it, assembling his game face, and Colin knows it's going to be a long, long day.

Later, he'll swear on his granny's grave that he didn't _mean_ to start something like this in front of the press. He trusts Bradley will believe him, but hopes he'll be made to pay for it anyway. The price is bound to be some version of playing with Bradley's arse and sucking his – these days blissfully bare, NHS-approved – cock, and Colin's never saying no to that, whatever the weather.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> **Original Prompt:**
> 
> They're either in France or in Wales filming and a massive storm rolls in. Bradley isn't keen on storms so goes to Colin's room to take refuge. He tries to fob off some reason to be there but Colin sees him flinch as the thunder rolls. After a couple of drinks doesn't work, Colin comes up with a different way to distract Bradley from the storm.
> 
> **Sources:**
> 
> 'The Feet Water' and 'Huddon and Duddon and Donald O'Leary' are both traditional tales, written versions of which appear in _Irish Folk Tales_ edited by Henry Glassie. The former I've mainly heard incorporated as part of longer stories; here I've had C tell it as its own tale, as in the Glassie book, but it doesn't follow that version exactly. This is my imagined take on his/his fictional granny's version of the tale.
> 
> The Ulster Cycle, like the more well-known (to me) Fenian Cycle, is one of the four great branches of Irish mythology. Conchobar mac Nessa was the main king of the Ulaid (people of Ulster/northern Leinster, or what is now the modern Counties of Armagh, Louth and Down) during the time these stories are set.
> 
> Epilogue dialogue is based on, and much of it directly transcribed from, Sharlene from Geek Syndicate's brilliant, hilarious interview with Bradley and Colin prior to the BFI Merlin Series 3 screening on September 5, 2010. (Which here I've twisted horribly to suit my own fictional purposes.)
> 
> **Irish Bits:**
> 
> _Disclaimer:_ Not a native speaker, nor a linguist. Pronunciation guides are highly unofficial and don't necessarily account for Colin's NI accent, but I've included them as I'm a read-aloud/listen person and always want some sense of how things sound. Any suggestions/corrections are more than welcome!
> 
> In order of appearance in the fic:
> 
>  _seachain_ = look out/beware; said to warn the spirits/fairies when you throw out the dirty water; like _sha-chin_ or _sha-kin_
> 
>  _Dé Luain, Dé Máirt, Dé Céadaoin_ = On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday; like when you're learning days of the week in a singsong rhythm, or (my specific reference), the fairies + Lusmore's refrain from the tale 'The Legend of Knockgrafton'; like _jay-looin, jay-martch, jay-kaydeen_
> 
>  _Beidh brú ort ansin i gceann cúpla lá_ = You'll have a bruise there in a couple of days; here C's recalling one of those random phrases you have to learn in school that, at the time, you're sat there wondering 'WTF? When will I ever need to say this to an actual person in this language?'; a bit like (?) _Behg bru urt onshin i gyeow-inn coup-leh law_
> 
>  _Oíche maith, codladh sámh a chuisle mo chroí_ = Goodnight, sleep well my darling (lit. 'pulse of my heart'); a bit like _EE-hyeh wa, kullah sow/sa-oo a khwishla/quishleh muh kree_


End file.
